


Only You

by vvywern



Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Black Widow - Freeform, Clintasha - Freeform, F/M, Hawkeye - Freeform, Hulk - Freeform, Iron Man - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Scarlett Witch, but there will be a lot of fluff, hawksilver - Freeform, it takes a while for Pietro to actually come into the story, lord help me, quicksilver - Freeform, there is a little angst, there might be smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:52:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 19,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6792031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vvywern/pseuds/vvywern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint, after the death of Laura and his unborn son, moves to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. He's soon in the company of Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanov, Steve Rogers, and Wanda Maximoff. Clint's proven wrong in thinking that his life might find normalcy after the battle with Ultron as Tony and Bruce succeed in something nobody anticipated or believed possible - bringing Pietro back to life.</p>
<p>Slight Brutasha, and Clintasha if you squint your eyes. The main ship is Hawksilver. The story takes a while to introduce Pietro back to life. (I hope it's worth it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A spray of bullets pierce Pietro’s skin, simultaneously going through his back and out his chest. In the second it all happens, a car is flipped onto its side.  
Clint clutches a boy in his arms, cradling his head against his chest. His heart smashes into his ribs and bounces back off, time and time again. His muscles tense as he waits for the bullets to hit, but they never come.  
The boy is sobbing in his arms, trembling. Clint can’t relax the muscles in his body and he turns like he is made out of stone. The gravel and rubble on the ground crunch as someone struggles to keep their footing.  
“I bet you didn’t see that one coming,” Pietro chokes, exhaling with the last bit of air that was in his lungs. A ghost of humor tries to stay alive in his deadening eyes. He doesn’t breathe in again. His legs collapse beneath him and his body hits the cement. Clint can hear the thud. He can’t hear the kid crying or the mother wailing anymore, or the helicarrier whirring yards away. His mouth is set in a rigid line and the creases of his brow are deeper than they’ve ever been.

Steve lay Pietro down on the floor of the helicarrier, next to where Clint grunts in as a sore and throbbing pain shoots down his back. He takes up several seats as he settles down across them. He keeps his eyes on the sky, not willing to risk the consequences of looking to his side where Pietro was.  
His heart beats dead in his chest in a strange feeling of loss. It physically aches, adding to the agony his body has already taken on.  
They won, he supposes. The Avengers had destroyed Ultron; torn apart every last one of his physical forms and wiped all traces of him from the networks he had infected. But as the helicarrier lifts off from the destroyed city, it feels like they lost. He looks to Pietro and feels the failure consume his bones, hollowing his body and beginning to make a devastatingly large section of his heart decay.

Loss follows Clint home. The farmhouse feels haunted by memories and the possibility of memories. The pictures that were scattered around the house, of a smiling couple and two kids with missing teeth, are packed away into bags. The beds are all made, without a single crinkle raised in the surface of the sheets. Dust has already begun to collect in thin layers amongst the furnishings. The air is deathly still.  
Clint helps his kids pack the last of their belongings. He tries to smile, but it never reaches his eyes. The expression has been stolen from him and Clint doesn’t feel the determination to try to get it back. His heart is as resigned as his body.  
The farmhouse stands a lonely building on the rolling hills as Clint guides his two kids to the jet plane, carrying several bags in his hands and with some slung across his slumped and sore shoulders.  
“Buckle in,” he says with a tight-lipped smile, though it is more just a forced slant of the lips. He crouches down in front of his daughter, kissing her forehead. “Try and get some sleep. It’s a long flight.” He ruffles his son’s hair, who weakly smiles up at him.  
The plane lifts off, ascending into the darkening sky. Clint stares longingly at the two graves in front of the house. His heart feels a pain immense enough that Clint wouldn’t be surprised if it tugged him back to the ground; forced him beyond the dirt to lay at peace aside two people he’d loved the most. He forcefully swallows. His bloodshot eyes leak a tear and he doesn’t bother to wipe them away.  
The grave of his wife and unborn son are but a blur as the plane glides on.


	2. Chapter 2

The move from a small, rural home to the large and modern headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. was a big one. Clint was, of course, familiar with the building and it’s hallways, rooms, facilities. His kids were reluctant at the start, but found themselves day-by-day beginning to accept the gargantuan building as an acceptable place to live. They were the only kids living there, of course, and found themselves lonesome at times — but there was no shortage of activity.  
In fact, the Barton family was the only family living in the headquarters. The only other person living there full time was Wanda Maximoff. Unadjusted to life in America, having been born in raised in the recently demolished Sokovia, Agent Fury had been kind enough to offer her a permanent stay in the HQ if she wanted. (Graciously, she had accepted.)  
Wanda was impressively good with children. Young herself, not past mid-twenties in age, she was lively and vivacious. She had been through Hell and her ability to not resent kids with a life relatively normal and free was not surprising to Clint, but tremendously appreciated. She was more than willing to give Clint a hand with his kids, taking time to tell them stories about Sokovia and join them on adventures through the building when Clint needed time to himself.  
In his time to himself, Clint was on rotation with four things: sleeping, archery, maintaining his hygiene, and grieving. His archery sessions were demanding, mainly due to the pressure he exerted on himself. It seemed to be the healthiest way to cope with the combined loss of Laura and Pietro, and he refused to fall out of shape. His archery was followed by excessive (though also perhaps necessary) showers. He would vigorously rub at his skin, trying to get at an unpleasant feeling of failure trapped beneath his skin. He’d shave every week or so, though some were worse than others. After his showers, he’d sleep. Between the three things, grieving fell into place.  
He’d been finishing dressing when there was a knock on the door to his room. Hastily finishing the process of buttoning up his shirt, he opened the door to find his son and daughter. It was still a process to smile but it was slowly becoming a look more genuine again. “What have the two of you done this time?” He grunts jokingly, wrapping his arms tightly around them as they rush in for a forceful hug.  
“Where’s Aunt Nat?” his daughter asks, glancing up at him after he releases them.  
“What, is Wanda too boring?” Clint laughs, catching a last glimpse of her as she exits the hallway.  
“No!” Both kids shout at once, with wide smiles. His heart swells a little at the expressions they give. He hasn’t seen grins so big in weeks. “She’s awesome,” his son gushes. “Today she showed us her powers. She sent all these super heavy things flying!” His daughter nods with enthusiasm.  
“She told us about her brother, too!”  
Clint conceals whatever expression would have come to his face — whether it would have been pride, fear, pain, he didn’t know. Wanda hadn’t said much about Pietro in several long months. She couldn’t have been over his death, but was she beginning to heal? Clint smiles and it hurts.  
“What about him?” Clint asks, sitting on his bed and patting it with his hand to motion for his kids to join him. They fling themselves onto the mattress and babble away, talking over and interrupting one another. Clint can’t hear them clearly. Their voices are disoriented and distant, like murmurs of a large but quiet crowd.   
He loves to hear them happy but he doesn’t want to hear them. He doesn’t hear them. Instead he hears a deep and joking voice, filled with sarcastic bites and sharp quips marked with an unmistakable and thick accent. He closes his eyes and falls deeper into it, but the more he tries to hear the voice the further it floats away.  
Clint desperately holds onto Pietro’s voice, scared he’ll one day forget it entirely. The though sends a chill down his spine.

That night, Clint jolts up in bed, covered head to toe in sweat. The thin sheets cling around his legs and he struggles to sit up straight. His chest rises and falls with a rapid rhythm that ceases to calm, taking a long minute to even begin to settle.  
It’d been another nightmare of the same thirty seconds of Pietro’s death. Clint struggles to ease the guilt that swamps him; the guilt that he has more nightmares of Pietro than of Laura, and the guilt that he was the cause of Pietro’s death. Of course, he had been there to see Pietro die. He’d watched everything fall apart in front of him. And Pietro had acted on his own — he chose to save Clint. But no amount of reasoning wins Clint even a moment of calm. He aches for Laura to be with him, for Pietro to be laughing at him for going to bed so early. He aches for the guilt to be gone because of the way it makes him feel so damn dirty.  
He reaches for his glass of water on the nightstand beside his bed, taking several long swigs. He breathes deep through his nose and out through his mouth before settling back into bed. Clint stares at the wall for an hour before sleeping again. No dreams nor nightmares wake him again that night.


	3. Chapter 3

“Clint?”  
“Mm?” He took a long drink from his coffee mug, closing his eyes and inhaling the rich and distinct smell. His eyes were red and the bags under his eyes were dark and puffy. Wanda frowned at him.  
“… are coming for a week.” Clint caught the last few words of what she said.  
“What?”  
Wanda rolled her eyes, but smiled nonetheless. “Long night?” She asked, clearly sympathetic but not wanting to push into business that wasn’t hers.  
“Something like that,” Clint replied, staring into his coffee. He looked like Hell.  
“The others are coming for a week,” Wanda repeated calmly, glancing rather hopefully at Clint over the rim of her cup of water.  
“A week? Why so long?” Clint asked. A small light returned to his eyes.  
Wanda retained a smile as she spoke. “They said they wanted to check in on you. And Stark and Banner need to use the labs here for something.”  
“‘Something’,” Clint repeated skeptically. Wanda laughed lightly. She had her worries too, but she had found some speck of trust in Tony Stark. As for Bruce, he was a smart man when he kept level-headed. She’d had her issues with both men and her trust wasn’t won over entirely, but she felt safe in the headquarters of S.H.I.E.L.D. “That’s promising.”  
“They’re supposed to be here soon,” she said, standing up from the chair in Clint’s room. “Do you want me to take the kids?”  
Clint laughed and nodded his head. “Thank you. Really.” He gave her a small but genuine smile. “I’d be worn down if it was just me with them.”  
“You already are worn down,” Wanda said smartly, a bit like her brother though with the best of intentions. “I’ll see you later.”

Natasha, Steve, Tony, and Bruce arrived at the headquarters in their own individual fashions, for the most part; Tony in a sleek new car, Nat and Steve in a nice-but-not-as-nice-as-Tony’s-car car, and Bruce via jet plane. In a surprisingly organized fashion, they arrived within minutes of one another.  
The process of navigating headquarters was a long one and it took several minutes for the team to assemble together in one place, though they roughly met in the room at the same time.  
“Barton,” Tony said with a little grin, “good to see you. Look like Hell, buddy.” Steve offered a soft smile and expressed his condolences. Late, but appreciated nonetheless — beyond belief — by Clint. Bruce, in a combination of comforting and awkward, patted Clint’s back.  
Nat, the last to greet Clint, punched him affectionately on the arm. “Long time no see. How are you holding up?” She asked, in a manner as genuine as a person can get.  
“Not so bad,” Clint said, surprising himself in the truth of the answer. Nat looked a little skeptical at the answer — it didn’t match up with how exhausted he looked. She raised her brows but voiced no questions. She’d save it for later. “You and Bruce,” he started, “when did that happen?”  
Nat glanced at Clint again and then Bruce, conversing with Tony and Steve. She smiled a secretive smile. “Not too long ago. I’m surprised you caught on. Who let you in on it?”  
“Laura,” he admitted. “When we went to the farmhouse, back when we were up against Ultron.” He looked a little pained at the mention of her, but managed to accept the feeling of grief as it came and went. “I’ll admit I didn’t see it coming,” he added at the look Nat gave him.  
She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Clint,” she said, unable to keep up with the humor Clint was trying to initiate. It was too hard — Clint was a close friend; the closest. Seeing him like this wasn’t easy, and she wouldn’t pretend it were any different. She looked ready to say something else but the doors to the room opened. Clint’s kids came bursting in.  
“Sorry!” Wanda called, trying to look apologetic and failing miserably. Clint can’t bother to be annoyed by the interruption as his kids practically flung themselves at Nat, their arms grabbing around her middle and looking like they’ll never let go. Wanda rushed towards them but Clint gently grabbed her shoulder.  
“They were dying to see Nat,” he said, and Wanda beamed at the look of content Clint had on his face. She nodded and moved off, punching Tony Stark (playfully, but with an intentional addition of a little force) in the shoulder. She smiled brightly at Bruce and pulled Steve into a hug. Clint was glad to see her growing comfortable around them, coming to view her somewhat like a daughter of his own.  
For a moment in time, Clint feels like he finally scrubbed free the guilt trapped under his skin. He felt okay — the losses of Pietro and Laura were wounds on his heart but were not so fresh, instead beginning to scab over. His shoulders relaxed and he let out a long, long sigh. He smiled and grabbed his two kids, laughing as he struggled to peel them off of Nat.

“We’ve got two hours to do this,” Tony Stark says.  
“You said we had three!” Bruce says incredulously, looking at his fellow scientist with a look of annoyed, shocked disbelief.  
“I was telling two-thirds the truth,” Tony says, setting up the needed tech and supplies.  
“You lied,” Bruce said flatly, pulling on his lab coat.  
“I tweaked the truth,” Tony corrected him.  
Despite the tweaking of truth, the two resembled kids in a candy store — except the store is a lab, and the candy is… well… it’s difficult to say which part of this was the candy.  
“Do you really think we can pull this off?” Bruce asked, making sure everything was in place. Two hours was cutting it tremendously close. The cradle was an incredible piece of technology, able to recreate tissue. Combined with the power of other modern technology and sciences, it seemed unstoppable. But Bruce had his doubts about doing this, especially with someone as daring as Tony. He felt a bit like Doctor Frankenstein.  
Tony Stark looked at Bruce, raising his eyebrows. “We’re mad scientists. We have to live up to it.”


	4. Chapter 4

“What are Banner and Stark up to?” Clint asks Natasha, glancing over at the assassin as he unstraps an arm guard onto his forearm.  
“They haven’t told us,” she answers with a slight downward tilt on her lips. “But they don’t need much time, gaging from what Tony told us.” Clint is unsure of whether to feel relieved or not. Tony and Bruce were incredibly smart. They could achieve the impossible in an hour, if they put their minds to it. Time tells nothing of what they could be doing. “How’ve you been holding up? Really,” she adds on, unable to ignore the exhausted demeanor Clint’s been wearing all day. “You can be honest. No one expects you to be perfect.”  
Clint looks at her with the slightest bit of doubt. She quirks a brow at him, wanting and expecting to hear the truth. When was she so emotionally adept? Clint wonders. He sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m getting better.”  
Nat doesn’t lighten her stare. She knows when Clint needs to be pressed, and this is one of those times.  
He shakes his head, putting his quiver of arrows away into their slots. He puts his compound bow into a case, buckling it shut and putting it away on a countertop nearby. “It isn’t Laura anymore,” Clint says. He knew he’d say it out loud, no matter how much he didn’t want to. He wish he could’ve internalized his guilt, but he felt so worn down from doing just that for so long. “It’s the kid.”  
“Pietro?” Nat clarifies. Clint nods, bracing his arms on a table and hopping up to sit on it. He rubs his hands together and takes an interest in the cool floor of the room. Clearly, it wasn’t the answer Nat had exactly expected. But she doesn’t look entirely surprised, either.   
“I don’t get why he did it,” Clint mutters, it being how he had sacrificed himself to save Clint and the child. He shakes his head. “I have nightmares about it,” he says after a silent minute, “every night.”  
Natasha, with a troubled expression, quietly lets out a breath. “He did it to protect you, Clint, and the child. He understood what being an Avenger was.”  
He shakes his head. Clint remembers all too well and clearly the look in Pietro’s glassy eyes as they fogged over, wide with pain — vulnerable. “There was another reason,” he says, running a hand through his short hair. “There was something bigger to it, Nat,” Clint repeats, looking at her with a furrowed brow, “and I can’t figure it out.”  
“Don’t cry on me,” she says with a little laugh. She pulls a small package of tissues from the pocket of her hoodie, handing it to the archer. He takes them but doesn’t use them, letting a single tear stray from the corner of his eye and tickle its way down his face. “I gotta go. Duty calls,” she says, glancing at the blinking light on a small radio at her hip. “I’ll catch you later.” With an encouraging smile, she dismisses herself from the room. The door echoes shut as she exits into the hallway, leaving Clint alone. 

Tony Stark and Bruce Banner don’t leave their lab room until the night transitions into morning. The sun sets and the moon was high in the sky by the time they gave up. Tony is out of character, a disappointed and reserved look on his face. Bruce looks as solemn as ever, tucking his glasses into the pocket of his shirt.  
“I’ll alert you if anything changes, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. says over the intercom as the lights to the laboratory room dim.  
“Thanks, buddy.”  
Tony doesn’t look optimistic as the laboratory door clicks shut. He and Bruce exchange a look, exchanging an entire conversation in a single expression. Accepting defeat has never been easy for either of them, but they’d reached too high with this one. It had always been impossible.

Stark is woken by the smooth and robotic voice belonging to J.A.R.V.I.S. “Sir, there’s something happening in the lab. The monitors just spiked.”  
Tony grumbles, forcing open his eyes to look at the clock. It’s just past 4 in the morning. He’d been in bed no more than two hours, and had slept even less. “You’d better be serious,” he says tiredly, failing to stifle a yawn. Slowly, he slips out of bed. “Where’d I put my jacket?”  
“On the couch, sir,” J.A.R.V.I.S. answers, without missing a beat. Tony thanks him, grabbing the gray hoodie before slipping his feet into his slippers — Iron Man slippers, found at a store near Stark Tower. He gives a little grin at the plush shoes. Tony leaves his room and sluggishly walks down to the laboratory, hardly remembering what he’d even been working on. When he does remember, he’s awake in seconds. If the monitors had spiked, there were only two explanations: there had been a fault in the technology, or he and Banner had actually pulled off something extraordinary.  
“Get Bruce for me,” he asks J.A.R.V.I.S., flicking the lights on and silently closing the doors. He rubs his eyes, looking to the far side of the room as he cautiously advances. “Please do not turn into a murderous monster,” he mutters. “I don’t need another round of ‘Avengers Assemble’ bullshit.”  
He taps the screen of the monitor, allowing it to come off of mute and brighten. The screen comes to life and the unmistakable beeping caused by a beating heart surrounds Tony. His dark eyes, suddenly very focused and intense, stare at the moving lines on the screen. They’re a bit unsteady but they’re moving in rises and falls, unlike the flatline he’d seen three hours before. He lets out a steady stream of select words, inspired by disbelief.  
“Tony, what’s going on?” Bruce asks, tired beyond belief but moving with exceptional speed across the room. Tony steps aside, letting Bruce see for himself.  
“I think,” Tony Stark says, beside himself, “we just brought him back to life.” They don’t talk for a long time after that, instead watching Pietro Maximoff’s chest rise and fall in shallow breaths.


	5. Chapter 5

Wanda abruptly stops in the middle of her training. There’s a sharp, acute sensation that hits her chest — a feeling she’s felt before. She yelps and falls down to her knees, clutching at her chest with her hands. A pulse of red magic radiates from her body, throwing back objects as the scarlet waves hit them. Practice dummies and weapons tables are slammed into the walls of the room, crashing loudly before clattering to the floor.  
Trainers and agents move for the doors, ducking to avoid flying objects and rushing out from the room. A few look like they’re considering running to her aid, but the currents of magic persuade them otherwise.   
Wanda gasps for breath, desperately trying to steady herself. She trembles head to toe and despite her efforts to gather herself, her eyes glow a shocking crimson. The world around her turns shaky and unsure, like the ground might flip and send her falling into unknown depths. A sense of emotional agony begins to form in her ribcage, like a new round of magic might explode.  
“Wanda!”  
She can’t look up, but she recognizes the voice. For a moment, her world regains a sense of grounding. Steve runs towards her and she can hear several sets of footsteps following. “What happened?”  
“I don’t know.” Wanda’s accent is dense with pain and fright. “Something’s shifting. I don’t understand.” The surviving Sokovian twin looks up at Clint, searching for the words to explain what’s happening inside of her. “I’ve felt this before.” It feels like something dormant is waking up in her chest, waking her body from an indescribable type of slumber.  
Clint kneels down, wrapping an arm beneath Wanda’s shoulders. He helps her to her feet. “I’ll get you to your room,” he grunts. The training room is a mess, like a war zone. Wanda, if not for the twisting sensation in her chest, would have protested — but her legs felt boneless and she couldn’t hear herself think.  
“We’ll get someone to put the room back in order,” Natasha says, catching an exchanged glance between Clint and Wanda. Steve nods, surveying the damage.  
“Keep us updated on her.” Wanda looks ready to fall unconscious. To make it back to her room easier, Clint easily picks her up to carry her in his arms. He nods at Steve. Nudging open the door with his back, he carefully maneuvers himself and Wanda out the doors.

“No one was hurt in the incident this morning,” Natasha informs Clint outside Wanda’s room. “How’s she doing?”  
“She’s sleeping now. She was asleep before I got her here,” Clint mutters quietly.  
“Any ideas on what happened?” Steve asks the both of them. All three of them are at a loss for an explanation. Clint shakes his head and Nat says nothing. A frown settles on their faces.  
“She won’t be awake for a while. Wanda hasn’t used her magic like that in months. There’s no telling the toll it will take on here,” Clint says, rather protectively. “When she does wake up, take it easy on the questions. She’s probably as clueless as we are.” Natasha looks less than eager to wait so long to start investigating further, but nods in agreement. Clint knows Wanda best and she doesn’t want to push boundaries until it’s needed. Steve complies without a moment’s hesitation.  
Steve asks, “Do we have eyes on Banner and Stark?”   
“The last I saw them was last night. They’re probably dead on their feet or asleep,” Natasha answers. “Bruce will be, anyways. I’ll go swing by and check on them. Keep your radio on, I’ll let you know. Maybe they’ll tell us what the hell they came here for.”  
Clint hangs back with Steve. The two of them linger in silence outside Wanda’s room, sharing a look of worry. Things had been starting to get back to normal, even for Clint. With all the Avengers in one place, S.H.I.E.L.D. should have felt the safest place — but Clint knows too well the peculiar feeling in his body, like something is happening that shouldn’t be. 

There’s a knock on Bruce’s door, and no answer. Natasha quietly slips inside, instinctually moving stealthily into the room. “Bruce?” She’d hate to wake him up and calls his name in a hoarse whisper.  
Again, there’s no answer. She turns on the lights to the room. Surely enough, Bruce isn’t to be found. His robe is gone from where it normally hangs on the dresser hooks, as are his shoes. His glasses are gone from the nightstand, too. She peeks inside the bathroom, finding nothing. She crosses the carpet flooring to the bed, with its sheets thrown to the side and a pillow on the floor. Natasha rests a hand on the mattress, wondering how long Bruce has been up. The bed is cold and the mattress is flat, lacking the indents Bruce would have left in the memory foam.  
A cold draft sweeps into the room underneath the door and she shivers. Grabbing a shirt of his from a hanger in the closet, she leaves the room and heads towards the lab. She slips into the large shirt, putting it over her thin sweatshirt. “Soft,” she notes to herself, jogging down the many flights of stairs it takes to get to the labs downstairs.  
She makes it there in ten minutes. She peeks around the labs, which are mostly empty. Of course they’d be in the farthest lab, equipped with more technology than the others and significantly larger. She knocks on the door, hoping this time she’ll get an answer.  
“It’s Nat.” Bruce.  
“Don’t open that door, Banner.” Tony. Asshole.  
She tests the doorknob, giving it a forceful wiggle. It doesn’t give way. “Open the door,” Natasha snaps, narrowing her eyes at the sudden commotion that happens behind the locked door. She considers grabbing the clip in her hair, but the locks here can’t be picked with just a bobby-pin. She scowls, for once annoyed at the security measures taken at headquarters.   
There’s a few more scuffles, followed by silence. There’s a click or two in the door and it swings open. Bruce greets her, with a tired smile. “Morning.” He raises an eyebrow at the shirt she’s taken to wearing.  
“Afternoon,” she greets. If it weren’t Bruce, she probably wouldn’t have smiled.  
“Mind the PDA,” Tony says from across the lab. “Keep it PG.”  
“I’ll consider it if you tell me what’s going on down here,” Natasha bargains, shutting the door behind her as she steps inside.  
“Nice try, but it’s a no go.” Natasha turns from Tony to glance at Bruce, who gives her a tight-lipped smile.  
“Sorry,” he says. Natasha’s beside herself.  
“Fine.” Natasha resorts to peeking around the lab. Her blue eyes, as sharp as a needle, don’t miss anything as she scours the room. It’s remarkably clean and organized. If Tony and Bruce were hiding something, they were desperate to keep it hidden. Tony and Bruce exchange a look and, from the corners of her eyes, she watches the way their eyes wander.  
A beep sounds from behind a wall. Tony and Bruce make for her. “Out of the way, boys,” she warns. Tony gives her his most sincere smile and Bruce looks at her pleadingly.  
“Don’t do this, Romanov —“  
“Nat —“   
She reaches under a steel table beside her, fingers sliding along the surface. Gotcha. She presses down on the small button and the wall lowers down into the floor. Tony colorfully curses and Bruce winces. She moves past the two of them, who turn to face the room with her. Tony whistles, cramming his hands into the pockets of his pants. Bruce stands back, nervously chewing at his bottom lip.  
“Wanda fainted,” she tells them. “Her magic exploded out of her.” Quirking an eyebrow, she turns to face the two scientists. “There’s no hiding this; not for long.”  
“Not hiding,” Tony says, raising his eyebrows and giving her a look. “Waiting.”


	6. Chapter 6

The loud, high pitched ring of a monitor comes into focus, slowly. With the sound and the slow regathering of his senses comes an unbearable return of throbbing, sharp pain in every part of his body. His nerves are on fire and his muscles scream. He begs for it to end before he can regret the choice he made to intercept the angry fire of a dozen bullets.  
His body feels ready to explode, unable to store the pain it’s undergoing. Pietro means to scream or holler, but he can barely even moan. It makes his chest explode into a new wave of pain, like never before. Sweat beads on his forehead and his body violently begins to shake. His systems are shutting down.   
“… morphine, quick,” a voice says, from somewhere near. It echoes in and out of focus and Pietro has just enough time to decipher the words before he blacks out again.

“It’s gone,” Wanda mumbles after a long drink of water. She runs her hands through her hair, pushing it out of her face. “I can’t feel it.”  
“What was it?” Clint asks, voicing a question both he and Wanda can’t answer. She shakes her head.  
“I don’t know.” A shudder runs down her spine. “I’ve never had that happen before, except…” she says, though she holds back on continuing for a moment. Clint hangs onto her words. “When I was tested on, with Pietro. I couldn’t control it. The only other time it has acted like that was when he died.”  
Wanda lets herself believe for just a second that Pietro was alive; that the demanding burst of power and the swelling throb in her chest in that moment had been her link to him, as if he was still alive. It’s in Clint’s eyes, too. The false hope that anyone could live after so many bullets tore them apart.  
An unmatchable agony consumes Wanda, from the inside out. It makes her heart shrivel and shake in its cage of bones. Her chest sinks in, and in, and in, constricting so tightly with every sob that she’s robbed of breath. Her face contorts as the cruel hope of Pietro, somehow living, eats her alive. Her forehead creases and her eyes squeeze shut so tight that tears can barely pass. Clint feels a pain in his own chest as he tries not to cry with her.  
He wordlessly moves to sit next to Wanda, wrapping his arms around her. She curls into him with the idea of turning in on herself, of shrinking into a ball so small and tight that she’ll entirely disappear.  
Clint grinds his teeth together, clenching his jaw as he rests his chin atop of Wanda’s ducked head. He closes his eyes, hating the hot tears that come. It feels like the scab on his heart was picked off. It felt like he was bleeding out.  
Worry splinters Clint’s body, digging under his skin and staying lodged there for the rest of the day. He can’t get rid of the idea that Pietro is somehow still alive. It’s impossible. Clint’s nightmares, and the realness of them as he relives again and again how Pietro died, remind him it can’t be possible. He tosses and turns in bed at night, fretful.  
He wonders if Wanda is still awake, too, of if the exhaustion of feeling a fleeting connection with Pietro had worn her down to sleep. He looks over to the bright clock on the short table next to his bed. It’s just barely five o’clock in the evening. The past few hours happened in a frenzy of stress and uncontrollable waves of conflicting emotion.  
Clint groans and rolls over onto his back, taking a pillow and shoving it into his face so he can moan again without disrupting anyone in the hallway outside. Laying in bed and doing nothing for an hour passes slowly and Clint recognizes the shittiest feeling of laziness. He feels like he’s wasting time laying down and worrying when he could be doing something. The only problem is that Clint hasn’t the slightest idea what he could possibly do.  
The thinks about going to Laura, who has an unbiased mind and a balanced sense of judgement. Clint angrily throws a pillow across the room, nearly knocking a lamp over. She had that.  
For the first time in years, Clint feels trapped. He can do almost anything — considering he can do almost anything with his hands or a bow and arrow, he feels stupid not being able to do anything with the emotions he’s known since birth. His innate traits feel useless. He feels useless and he detests the feeling.


	7. Chapter 7

“How’s he doing?” Natasha asks, with three drinks in her hand. She thanks Bruce for holding the door open and sets the glasses down. A disgustingly strong alcohol for Tony, an herbal tea for Bruce, and coffee for herself with a few drops of creamer.  
“Alive,” Bruce answers, taking the hot mug of tea in his hands. He takes a sip, watching the monitor over the rim of his drink. He adds, “He was awake an hour ago.” Bruce glances at Natasha, gaging her expression.  
“Was?”  
“We had to knock him out,” Tony says, smoothly swiping his glass from the countertop and taking a long drink. He winces at the strength and cheekily smiles after he swallows. Natasha folds her arms across her chest and rolls her eyes.   
“He’s in a lot of physical pain. Even with his altered genetics, the pain would probably kill him. For good. If he dies, his tissues and cells can’t go through another stage of regeneration.”  
“So what you mean to say is that you’re keeping him in between life and death,” she clarifies. Bruce opens his mouth and then shuts it.  
Tony, master of word twisting, denies the claim. “We’re letting him decide.”  
“What decision is there to make? Either he dies or he doesn’t,” Natasha says flatly, taking a sip of her iced drink.   
“When people are in his position, a lot of the outcome depends on the person’s willpower,” Bruce says slowly. “So there isn’t anything more we can do than keep him unconscious. We got him back to life, but he has to decide for himself if he wants that.”  
Natasha doubts they’ll let Pietro die if he so chooses, but she purses her lips. “Steve is going to be furious.”  
“And what, throw a temper tantrum?” Tony asks, shaking his head. Bruce stays out of it, keeping a steady and focused look at the monitor. “This isn’t his fight.”  
It isn’t yours, either. Natasha wants to yell at him.   
Under any other circumstances, Natasha would have. She’s not scared of getting into a verbal argument, not even with someone as stubborn and strong-headed as Tony. But for the sake of someone else, she keeps her thoughts private.  
She thinks about Clint’s possible reactions to seeing Pietro. She’s felt her own share of guilt and complete devastation. Clint’s beating himself up over Pietro, she can see it as clear as day. She’s known Clint for years now and she knows him inside out, better than the back of her hand. If Pietro being alive has a stab at easing Clint out of the depression he’s sunken into, she’s not going to stop it.  
She figures Pietro has won the Rookie of the Year award. She moves towards the bed he’s in, laying still as stone. He looks pale and gaunt — like death. She looks over her shoulder, not wanting to be caught talking to someone so close to the grave. Tony and Bruce face the other way, deep in conversation.  
Natasha breathes in deeply, bringing her lips down next to Pietro’s ear. “Don’t die on us,” she whispers. “Or I’ll kill you.” Sure, she could have done that — she could have killed anyone twice over. But the small smile, nearly invisible on her lips, is detectable in her voice.  
She leaves the boys to their work and leaves the laboratory, silently rooting on the Sokovian. Like he can feel it, Pietro’s monitor spikes up. His heart rate inches a little more towards a more stable beat. Bruce rushes towards him, with Tony hot on his heels. “Did you hear that?”  
“Take a look at the monitor,” Tony says, watching the rise and fall of the jagged red line following Pietro’s heartbeat.   
“He’s going for it,” Bruce mutters, looking at an abandoned coffee mug on the floor next to Pietro’s cot. He wonders what Natasha said. He smiles to himself, laughing soundlessly. “This is crazy.”  
Tony sips his alcohol through a blue, plastic bendy straw. “You said it.”   
“Do you think Steve is going to get mad?” Bruce asks.  
Tony, unfazed, looks at Bruce. “If I can handle you mad, he’ll be no problem.” He claps his partner in crime on the shoulder, and the two of them raise their glasses.  
“Cheers,” they say together.  
“To the impossible,” Bruce says, taking a modest sip of tea. Tony pushes the straw aside and empties the last half of his glass.


	8. Chapter 8

“It happened again,” Steve says, falling into step with Natasha as they jog quickly to Wanda Maximoff’s room.  
“Any serious damage?”  
“Nothing physical. She knocked over the table and left a few cracks in the walls, but she doesn’t seem to be harmed. I’ve got Barton with her now.”  
They move in swift silence down the long, whitewashed halls of the massive headquarters. Despite a significantly shorter stride and height, Natasha keeps up easily with Steve.  
“… still feel it.” Natasha can hear Wanda through the door of her room. The door, surprisingly, it still intact. She knocks before entering with Steve.  
Wanda’s room looks like a hurricane had swept through. Her bed had been slammed to the far wall of the room and her dresser leaned into the corner at an angle, half of it in the air. Her nightstand was near the door, broken into splinters of wood. The walls had cracked, more deeply in some places than others. The paint on the walls of the room were chipped and looked weathered, like they’d faced a decade of wear and tear. Her magic had stripped the paint down instead, creating the worn look in mere seconds.  
Clint’s kneeling down on the floor next to Wanda’s distraught form. He has a steady hand on her delicate shoulder. His hand moves down her back in strong but delicate stokes, like he’s trying to iron out the way she’s shaking. He looks up and greets Natasha and Steve with a tight smile. “She’s alright.”  
Little bits of red magic, like sparks of electricity, occasionally zap from Wanda’s body. Aside from casting brief light, they don’t seem to do anything. An emotional discharge, maybe, Natasha considers.   
By now, the assassin has put two and two together. After the battle with Ultron had ended, there was a minor debriefing. She remembers how Wanda had described what happened; a feeling in her chest minutes before the battle ended, like her heart was being ripped — precisely the time when Pietro had died, Natasha was willing to bet.  
She can’t smile; the expression would probably be inappropriate. But despite the stress Wanda was undergoing, it meant something: Pietro had taken up his fight.   
“Let’s try and move her somewhere more secure,” Steve offers, “for her safety.” He pointedly looks at the way Wanda has herself composed. She’s exhausted, leaning against Clint for support. “That way we can keep an eye on her.”  
“The medical wing downstairs?” Clint suggests. The medical wing is perhaps the safest area, with plexiglass and furnishings secured. If another outbursts happen, there won’t be as much damage and there’ll be medical aid on hand if she needs it.” They all look at each other before looking to Wanda, all seeking her consent.  
She nods. Clint offers to help her stand but she refuses his help this time. “I can do it,” Wanda says firmly. Clint backs up a few seer to give her space and Wanda grabs into the frame of her bed. Like a newborn foal, she gets to her feet. Her legs wobble but her grasp is strong, so tight that her knuckles pale. A bit of color drains from her face.  
“I’ll go get the room ready,” Steve says. Wanda gives him an exhausted smile. With a grin he musters, he gives her a salute before jogging out the room.

“It’s not the most homey place, but it’ll have to do,” Natasha tells Wanda as they enter a medical room. Steve’s done his best to make it less drained of color — how he managed to get flowers, she can’t figure out. He brought down several blankets and pillows, as well as a platter of light foods and a pitcher of water.  
Wanda manages a laugh as Natasha helps her settle into the bed. “It’s fine,” she assures them, again humbled by the generosity of S.H.I.E.L.D. After first being their enemy and then being offered residence, she’s taken aback by their willingness to shelter her still. (She didn’t think an organization so giving would be an organization Tony Stark belonged to, either.)  
“There’s a radio on the table if you need anything,” Steve says, looking at the small but capable handheld device. “Hold down the button on the side and talk if you need to get us. Emergencies, press that red button.”  
“Impressive,” Natasha mocks. “Who knew you were so tuned in with modern technology?”

Clint slides a leather armguard onto his forearm. He prepares a bow, taking a recurve with an impressive forty pound draw weight. He sets a line of targets down the long room, at varying heights and distances. The lights dim, challenging his eyesight. He selects two dozen aluminum arrows, fletched with perfectly shaped feathers at one end and sharp at the other. He occasionally practices with wooden arrows, though aluminum arrows tend to have a more accurate aim due to their consistent density.   
He slides the arrows into a quiver and straps it to his back. Clint inhales deeply. Focus. He flicks a switch on the wall upwards and the targets begin to move, up and down and side to side. They cross in front of one another and bump into each other, moving as if they’re light as wind chimes though making dull thuds instead of pleasant chiming.  
In the same moment he is more still than a deeply rooted mountain, he is moving swift enough to confuse the untrained eye. He loads arrows in under a second, aiming even quicker. He draws back, the muscles in his arms hardly straining against the considerable pressure provided by the draw weight of the bow. The arrows launch through the air and strike true in the targets, always plunging into the dead center. Some arrows quiver in the targets once they hit, moving and buzzing with the force of the hit.  
Clint is a deadly machine, consisting of a shut-down emotional system, a bow and arrows, as well as a body trained to endure anything. He sends arrow after arrow into the target range, all of them finding the black dot marked on their designated target. Clint hits where he wants to hit, and only where he wants to hit. Not a single arrow strays from where he wants it to be. Twenty four arrows are lodged firmly into targets in under a minute.   
Though a short exercise, Clint feels more relaxed in the slightest as he sets down the bow, unstringing it to keep pressure from splitting the finely crafted weapon. He collects the arrows, firmly setting one hand at the base of the arrow and the other hand wrapped around the aluminum shafts, pulling them from the targets. He slides them into the quiver and sets them aside, making a mental note to have the ends resharpened later.  
With his head clearer than it had been upon entering, Clint leaves the practice room. Two bodies run into him at full speed. He laughs, doing his best to return the hugs given to him by his kids. “That was awesome!” His son blurts. “You shot like, a million arrows in less than a minute!” Clint ruffles his hair and wraps an arm around his daughter’s shoulders.   
“You two have room for dessert?” He asks, leading them to the base floor where the cafeteria is. They sprint ahead of him, like they’ve memorized the way there.


	9. Chapter 9

“How’s he doing this morning?” Bruce asks. It’s nine in the morning. He got around seven hours of sleep last night — the most he’s gotten in several months.  
“He was pretty steady throughout the night.”  
“Gee, Tony, your voice changed.” Bruce chuckles a little, rubbing his chin.  
“Morning,” Natasha greets, smiling. “Tony went up to catch some sleep, I offered to stay here until you got back.”  
“Ah.”   
“His heart rate got a little better,” she says, nodding towards the monitor. Bruce puts on his glasses, glancing towards it. It’s improving gradually. Bruce can’t recall in the past 48 hours any time when Pietro’s heart rate had gotten worse instead of better. “Do you think he’ll wake up again?”  
“It’s hard to tell,” Bruce says, scratching the back of his head. “He could, but there’s no telling. Did Tony tell you where he left the IV bag?”  
“I’ll get it,” Natasha answers, moving past Bruce. She carefully grabs an IV bag with clear liquid from an overhead cabinet, having to get on her tiptoes to reach it. Bruce slips on a pair of gloves and grabs a needle, hooking it to the end of the tube of the IV. Hanging the clear pouch from the stand near Pietro’s bed, he carefully grabs hold of the man’s arm. It’s hard to find a vein. With a weak pulse, there isn’t a lot of blood being pumped throughout Pietro’s body. Natasha grabs an elastic band and ties it tight around Pietro’s bicep, so blood gathers in a vein.  
“Thanks,” Bruce murmurs, narrowing his eyes. He rubs a sanitary wipe over the skin on the inside of Pietro’s arm and then slips the needle smoothly into a vein. He uses a small piece of tape to keep it in place and Natasha removes the band, letting the blood disperse again. “Ever consider being a doctor? You’re a natural.”  
Natasha laughs and Bruce cracks a smile. “Never. Being a doctor and assassin wouldn’t mix too well. But I’ve had my fair share of needles and medical mishaps.”  
“Sounds fun,” Bruce comments, peeling off the gloves and disposing them into a nearby trash. “You sticking around?” He asks, pulling up a chair to settle in next to Pietro for a while.  
“Maybe for a while,” she muses, tucking herself into a seat next to Bruce. “Kid could use some company.” Entertaining the idea, and finding her schedule relatively clear for the day, Natasha figures she could spare some time to stay. The room settles into silence, save for the steady beeping of the heart monitor. Sometime in her stay Natasha falls asleep, her fingers laced with Bruce’s.  
When Tony comes in some time later, he quirks a brow at Bruce and gives a purposeful glance at their hands. Bruce can’t help but smile. Tony hardly has the heart to tease him.  
“Any updates?” He asks, whispering dramatically and making a show of not waking Nat.  
“His pulse is getting better,” Bruce quietly informs him, “and he’s been moving, more than usual.” As if to display, Pietro shifts beneath the thin sheets.  
“It’s like —’’  
“Like he’s sleeping. I know,” Bruce mutters. Pietro’s face seems more relaxed and flushed than the night before and his movements, though limited, aren’t as stiff. He murmurs and it almost sounds like a string of words, but his accent makes them unintelligible. “I’m taking Nat back to her room.”  
Bruce gently slips his hand from her loose grip. He delicately scoops her up into his arms, cradling her to his chest. Until now, seeing her up close, he hadn’t realized just how tired she’d looked. Worrying about Clint, combined with keeping an eye on his kids and keeping her lips sealed about Pietro, she’d probably been running on low fuel the past forty eight hours. She probably could have slept through an earthquake if she wanted, but she’d never want that. Nat kept herself alert, even in sleep. He’s surprised she hasn’t woken yet.  
Not the weakest nor the strongest, he’s grateful Nat’s room is a short trip up only a few staircases and down two short corridors. He winces as he manages to open the door and not drop her, carefully entering. Entering the room of Natasha, let alone any assassin, felt oddly like trespassing.  
Her bed is messy from morning; unmade. He gently lay her down and pulls the sheets up over her, catching a glimpse of goosebumps raising the hairs on her arms. He moves to the thermostat, set to a low and cool temperature. He adjusts it a few degrees warmer. Before leaving, he sets a glass of water on the table next to her bed.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint knocks gently on the door to Wanda’s temporary new living space. “It’s open,” she calls, and he lets himself inside. She’s in the bed, with at least three blankets covering her. Wanda sets down the leaves of a strawberry on a plate, chewing before speaking. “Is everything alright?”  
“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yeah, everything’s fine.” He runs his hands over his face, feeling as exhausted as he looks.  
“I’m sorry for all the trouble,” Wanda apologizes sincerely. “I didn’t think something like this would happen.” She squeezes the pillow she holds in front of her a little harder.  
Clint can’t help but laugh. “Trouble? In the scheme of things, you’ve hardly left a dent. S.H.I.E.L.D. has seen a lot worse,” he assures her. “My kids are treating your room like a crime scene,” he adds, which makes Wanda laugh a little.  
There’s a silence that follows, leading to allowing a question to hang in the air. It’s as though they both mean to ask it, but both fear the consequence of giving it life.  
“Do you think it’s Pietro?” Clint finally asks.  
Wanda lets out a breath, unaware she had been holding it. “I don’t know. It seems such a ridiculous thing, yet… it is the only explanation I can find.” Her throat feels like it’s closing up when she speaks. “Do you think Hydra has him?”  
Clint feels confident answering the question, at the very least. “No. If he’s alive, I doubt he’s in enemy hands.” S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers were meticulous in assuring, at least for now, that Hydra had no active bases or formidable technology. “Even if Hydra was still operating right now, they couldn’t bring anyone back. And if they could, they wouldn’t be saving Pietro.” Wanda nods her head, unsure of whether or not the information scares her or comforts her.  
“How is it possible for him to be alive?” It’s the biggest barrier in the plausibility of the theory that, somehow, miraculously, Pietro is anything but dead. “He was so cold and so pale,” she whispers.  
Clint, silently, asks himself the same question. He saw Pietro die right in front of him; saw his chest cave in with a final breath and never rise back up. Most night he sees his eyes again, a haunting and lifelessly dull pale blue. Clint can see the bullet holes and the blood blossoming from the dozen wounds, seeping across the fabric of his shirt. Clint saw Pietro dead. “I don’t know,” Clint admits, wishing there was something more substantial he could say. “I’m sorry.” He’d come to Wanda hoping she’d have answers, but Clint found himself at a dead end. 

Nighttime falls across headquarters rather uneventfully. With a lack of explanations or answers, and only questions hanging in the air, most everyone is looking forward to sleeping. There’s small talk made but even Steve Rogers feels himself fading. They all take on their own look of exhaustion, expressed through a variety of clothing, choices of comfort food, and red faces.  
“Barton, did Wanda say anything new?” Tony looks at his drink with disinterest, stifling a yawn.  
“She knows as much as we do,” Clint answers. His coffee does little to nothing to stimulate his senses. He looks around the table — a depressing sight. Wanda is in her room, asleep already. Tony has barely touched his liquor, instead fiddling with the straw in his glass. Steve isn’t quite brooding but sits in a stumped silence. He’s even got his elbows on the table, a no-no in even the simplest table etiquette. Natasha leans back in her chair with her hands folded in her lap, tired beyond belief. Bruce hardly manages to keep his eyes open, despite his caffeinated tea.  
“‘m calling it quits, lady and gentlemen,” Tony announces, closing his eyes a long moment and gathering the needed encouragement to stand up. After his leave for the night, the others disperse in their own time. Clint’s the last one in the room, staying there in solitude for at least half an hour before going to bed himself. His kids are tucked into bed in their room, and he kisses them both on the forehead.  
He falls asleep on the floor beside their bed, too tired to relocate himself to his proper room.

The next morning, Tony’s the first of him and Bruce to get to the laboratory. “God, that’s gross,” he says, making a sour face as he takes a sip of coffee. Not his preferred drink, but it would do. Admittedly, he had added some energy drink into the drink. Tony can’t recall the last time he woke up so groggy.  
In his Iron Man slippers (and, shamelessly in his matching pajama pants), Tony grabs a new IV bag. He’ll leave it to Banner to switch out the old one, taking it out as a reminder. He sets it on the countertop near Pietro, and checks the monitor.  
It’s flatlining.  
“We’ve got an issue,” Tony says to himself, blatantly. Following the cord running from the monitor to Pietro, Tony lets out a string of swears. He’s never run so fast in a morning in his life.  
“Bruce,” he wheezes, entering his room without the courtesy of a knock. “We have a problem. Speedy is gone.”


	11. Chapter 11

Pietro Maximoff wonders where the hell he is. The air in the hallways brushes his skin in gentle waves of cool, slow winds. He reaches the end of a long corridor and takes a right. Comparing this building with that of where he’d been kept throughout experimenting, he feels relatively confident — it was clean and neat, with no flickering lights or suspiciously marked entryways. There’s that, as well as an odd recollection of hearing voices that he was familiar with when he moved in and out of consciousness.  
Regardless of the degree of safety he begins to feel in the building, he’s determined to get out and far, far away. He’s filled with the sensation that he should have stayed dead.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters bustle with activity. It seemed that nothing was wrong or out of place, that operations were moving smooth and efficiently. The comments of a sudden and strong gust of air, made by a myriad of workers and agents on all different floors and in all different sections of the headquarters, are ignored. Strange drafts of air are often the least of people’s worries — unless they were Tony Stark or Bruce Banner.  
Tony holds nothing back as he stares at the empty bed, letting a stream of foul yet creative expressions out. Bruce runs a hand through his hair and sighs for a precisely six seconds.   
“He could be anywhere,” Bruce says. Tony gives him a screaming look of not-so-comforting.  
“J.A.R.V.I.S., I need you to get into the mainstream and seal off any exits in the building.”  
“On it, sir.”  
“We have got to tell Fury,” Bruce says. “If someone sees Pietro, they might panic.” Someone being Wanda or any other Avenger, he gives Tony a pointed look.  
“So what, we call for a Code Red Internal?” Tony asks sarcastically.  
Bruce doesn’t quite catch the sarcasm, replying, “No, then they’ll actually panic.”  
“Brilliant,” Tony sighs, exasperated. “So what do we do?”  
“Get Natasha,” Bruce says. “If anyone can find him, she can.” Tony doesn’t have any better ideas, and nods. “I’ll get her.”  
“Watch the security cameras,” Tony calls to J.A.R.V.I.S., “and tell me if you see anything.”

“You do know he can run sort of fast, right?” Natasha asks, pulling on a light jacket after Bruce fills her in on the situation.  
“Out of me, you, and Tony, you’re the most capable of tracking him down.” Bruce feels guilty after waking her up and asking such a favor of her. Natasha rubs her eyes, seemingly in no rush to save their skin. She moves into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. “Is that a no?”  
Natasha doesn’t answer. Bruce stares at the closed door and Natasha reappears half a minute later, with a glowing sort of wand in her hand. “It’s not for you,” she says with a roll of her eyes after seeing the bewildered look on Bruce’s face. “If I find him, I don’t want him running. And for your sake, don’t let Wanda out of her room.”

“All the exits are locked. We’re trying to override whatever system is controlling them, but we aren’t having a lot of luck.” Natasha casually glances towards the dozen screens that show feed of twelve security cameras around the east sector of the building. “You know who’s behind this, right? It has to be Tony.” Natasha looks over at Clint, biting down on her tongue.  
“He doesn’t have any reason to,” she counters, keeping it casual as she can. “Where is he right now?”  
Clint shrugs. “Hell if I know. Probably down in the labs.” Natasha looks at the monitors again but catching a look of dawning realization on her friend’s face. “I’ll find him.” Clint exits the security room on the seventh floor and rushes down fourteen flights of stairs as fast as anyone could. He makes a direct trip to the laboratories.  
“Clint’s headed to the labs,” Natasha mutters into a small band on her wrist. “Stark, whatever suspicious things might be out there need to go, quick.” She watches as a small flicker of movement catches in a camera’s feed. Checking her taser is in place at a holster on her side, she heads to the base floor.

Clint finds Steve stepping out of an elevator and into the basement where the laboratories are. “Any idea where Tony is?” He asks, falling into step with Clint.  
“No clue.”  
Steve’s jaw tightens. Clint gets the idea that Steve and him share a similar belief regarding who the culprit is behind the locked doors — no one in, no one out. Hacking into the system and overriding it with an anonymous identification and hidden address, it had to be the work of Tony Stark. He just needs to figure out why.  
Of course, the door to the laboratory that Tony and Bruce have been slaving in is locked. Steve slams an angry fist into the door, leaving a small dent. “Shut it down, Tony,” he shouts. The veins in his neck are tense.  
“And there’s the temper tantrum,” Tony mutters under his breath to Bruce, stashing away the IV bag. The wall is up, hiding the room behind it where Pietro’s bed was. A perfectly normal laboratory, clean and organized and with a door knocked off his hinges. “Don’t get your spandex in a twist.”  
“It’s time for you and Banner to tell us what’s been going on down here,” Steve demands. Clint stands next to him, a good bit shorter but no less angry.  
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Tony starts. Bruce grinds his teeth, hating the tension that’s exploded into the room.  
“You’re locking the doors.”  
“Sources?”  
“We don’t need sources to know you’re behind this,” Clint says.  
“The last time something like this happened, so did Ultron.”  
“I don’t know, that,” Tony argues, “that sounds like a stretch.” He looks at Bruce for some backup, who can’t say anything because he knows Steve makes a point. “Oh, come on.” Bruce feels trapped, yet again, in an endless cycle of right and wrong choices in morality.  
“So you aren’t going to deny you’re responsible for this?” Steve asks. Tony shrugs a bit carelessly and his calm demeanor ticks him off. “I’ll ask again: tell us what you’re doing.”  
“Weren’t you raised in the early nineteen hundreds?” Tony asks. “Weren’t manners really important back then or something?”  
“Stop avoiding the question, Stark.”  
“Stop being —“  
Bruce slams a fist down on a steel table, leaving a decent sized dent in the smooth surface. Steve and Tony both fall silent, fuming. It’s hard to tell who has a redder face. Clint pulls Steve back, keeping a steady eye on Bruce. It would really, really suck to have a Code Green right now. “It’s Pietro.”  
Well, there it is. “We’re not doing him,” Tony corrects after an moment of silence, created by sheer astonishment. “Not like that. It’s more along the lines of necromancy, but less magic and more science.” He wiggles his hands a little, like the explanation was more or less accurate.


	12. Chapter 12

Clint is told by Bruce, Tony, and Steve to not pass on the information to Wanda. “It’s her brother. She should have been the first to know.” Looking troubled, Steve glances at Clint. He looks extraordinarily protective of Wanda and unwilling to back down.   
“Think about what you’re doing,” Tony advises Clint.  
“Either we tell her or Wanda finds him on her own. She’s not going to just sit back with all this commotion.”  
“Clint’s probably right,” Bruce speaks up. Tony looks entirely against the idea but Steve looks on the fence. He trusts Clint’s instincts and knows he’s doing what he thinks is best, but Wanda’s under a lot of stress as it is. He doesn't know whether to let it dwindle before adding to it again, or if she should know everything.  
“We have to consider the consequences,” Steve says rationally.  
“We don’t have time,” Bruce replies, shutting down the idea as kindly as he can. The room couldn’t fit more tension as it is. “Wanda’s going to want answers.”  
“She does want answers,” Clint clarifies. “She knows it has to do with Pietro.”  
Tony narrows his eyes at the bold claim. “I’m calling bullshit, Barton.”  
He shakes his head. “The outbursts of her magic? Last time that happened, it was when Pietro died. They had a connection and she lost it. She can put two and two together. Wanda’s identified what she’s feeling. She knows her brother is back.”  
Tony doesn’t have time to retort or try to reason further. “Boys, we have a problem,” Natasha interrupts, standing in the broken doorway to the lab. She doesn’t give the door, off his hinges, a second glance. “Wanda’s out.”  
“Called it,” Clint mutters.

Swirls of dark red magic, like spirals in a galaxy, circle around Wanda’s fingers and tickle her palms. The witch stalks down the abandoned hallway, unease growing across her back like someone’s watching her.  
The building feels strangely dangerous; it’s the first time she’s ever felt anything less than safe inside headquarters. The feeling in her chest crushes against her ribs, swelling inside her and ready to burst, as if her lungs were pressurized cans being kept on the verge of explosion. At the same time, it’s a warm and pleasurable filling of her chest. After Pietro had died, it’d felt hollow and empty. It’d scared her — but the way her chest was now scared her just as much. The only thing that scared her more was turning each corner, not knowing if she’d see him.  
Wanda knew he was here. Her brother was somewhere in this impossibly large building and she was going to search every hallway and room until there was nothing new for her to search. Wanda wasn’t resting until she found him.  
Somewhere on another level of the building, Pietro clutches his chest. His mission to escape the building takes a detour.  
He wasn’t resting until he found her, either.

The door of Wanda’s room is opened. It looks like she had required no force to open the door. Natasha figures she’d used her magic, finding the inside of the lock and, after figuring out the shape the key would be if she had it, made her magic the same shape. Clever. The radio Steve had provided her was still on the table. Contacting her would be impossible, unless they wanted to use the intercoms — but that would expose the issue to the entire population of headquarters.  
“Bruce and Tony are in the security room with radios to contact us. If they see either Wanda or Pietro on the security camera feeds, they’ll tell us. Steve is already searching the upper floors. I’ll take down here and you can get the middle levels,” Natasha says. Though it’s a basic plan, Clint admires her ability to organize and execute a plan in mere minutes.  
She looks as if she’ll move to leave, but stutters in her step. She glances around the room and pulls out a small chip from beneath a table. She drops it to the floor and steps on it. The sensitive, tiny microphone breaks under her sneaker. Clint looks at her quizzically. “You going to be okay?”  
Clint chuckles, ducking his head. “He’s Pietro, not Loki or Ultron. I think I’ll be okay.” A half-truth. If Pietro were aggressive for any reason, he could handle himself. The only thing he doubts is how he’ll   
Natasha punches him on the arm. “You know what I meant.”  
“I’ll be fine,” he assures her, giving her a small and quick smile before moving to the stairs, moving up them two at a time. He’s out of Natasha’s sight in seconds. Shaking her head, she takes a few steps backwards and turns on her heels, setting off at a light jog down a hallway.


	13. Chapter 13

Clint swallows, pretending he isn’t nervous and imagining he is perfectly prepared to possibly run into Pietro. He figures it will be the other way around, with Pietro running into him. “Quick little bastard,” he mutters under his breath. He gets to the top of the flight of stairs and opens the door, stepping onto the eighth floor. A few people pass through the halls but walk tensely, looking on edge. The discovery of all exits sealed and impossible to open, not even with sheer strength, have clearly disturbed the workers.   
He laughs a little, thinking about the trainees stuck outside in the sweltering weather. He’s glad he wasn’t scheduled to overlook their training. Shaking his head to clear the thought, he takes a left. He passes several doors, most left slightly ajar. He peeks inside each and finds them all empty, as he’d suspected they would be.  
The hall opens into a wider space where four elevators are. All the elevators are on different floors but the button for an elevator is pressed. Several seconds later, a ring sounds and a set of elevator doors starts to slide open. Clint dashes to the side on light feet, pressing into another elevator door. A wall, just a few inches out from the door, blocks him from the sight of whoever could be in the elevator.  
Clint can hear the distinct sound of shoes on the floor. There are light footsteps and then nothing. Clint strains to hear anything as the seconds of silence stretch on. His heart is moving fast. More steps, cautious and purposefully quiet. Clint peeks out, and curses. “Damnit!” Steve Rogers jumps a little, then clutches his chest and laughs quietly. “I thought you were him.”  
“Did Tony not tell you yet?”  
“Tell me what —’’ In perfect timing, the radio at Clint’s hip beeps once before Tony starts talking.  
“We just saw him on a cam. Check the east side of your floor,” he says. “Bruce, did you see — ’’ Tony must’ve released the button a little late. His last few words sound entirely giddy. He’s clearly losing it over seeing Pietro moving, excited beyond belief.  
“Do you think he might pee his pants?” Clint asks Steve, walking with him to the east sector of the eight floor.  
“He’s had a few drinks,” Steve says casually. “I wouldn’t be shocked.”  
“I’ll take the right,” Clint mutters, dropping his voice. Steve nods, taking the left turn to enter the east side and walking down the hall on light feet, with a confident stride.  
Clint, wishing he felt half the confidence felt by Steve, strides down the corridor to his right. He straightens his face, setting his lips in a thin line and furrowing his brows in concentration. He squares his shoulders and steadies his stride. Trying to make Pietro nothing to worry over, he starts searching the rooms.  
The hallway mostly has private training rooms similar to his own one for archery, as well as a few computer rooms. The doors are all shut but unlocked, swinging open quite easily. Clint turns the knobs slowly, making his entrances as unknown as possible if Pietro’s inside. He makes it halfway down the hall before reaching a door that’s locked, the knob turning a quarter an inch before stopping. It’s the door to a break room, stocked with waters and small snacks. Clint would get a good laugh out of it if he found Pietro inside.  
Clint reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lock pick. He carefully slides it into the doorknob and wiggles it around, moving it up and down to simulate the curves of the key. The lock clicks open quietly, sending a small quiver through the tool to Clint’s fingers. Clint pulls it out slowly and pockets it again. Gathering a breath and filling his lungs with air, Clint opens the door.  
He’s in the corner of the room, twitching and hugging himself; squeezing himself so tight the muscles of his arms strain. Pietro is a blur and then reappears in another corner, heaving for breath as the twitching continues. Clint closes the door quickly and locks it shut.

“Clint’s got him,” Tony says over the radio, sending the message to Steve and Natasha. The two are in the security room in a minute, joining Tony and Bruce.  
“Something’s wrong with him,” Bruce says as Pietro runs from the view of one camera. Clint stays in the shot, turning slowly and not running from the room. Pietro is clearly still inside. “Something’s wrong with Pietro.”  
Wanda Maximoff stands closest to the screen, in wonder and fear, as she watches her brother move in and out of view. She looks away, remembering all to well how he had twitched just the same during experimentation. “It’s his powers,” she says quietly. “He doesn’t know how to control them.”


	14. Chapter 14

Pietro catches a glance at Clint and looks like a deer caught in the headlights. His face is pallid, colorless and shining with a layer of sweat. His shirt is stretched, which Clint makes sense of as Pietro grabs at the cloth and tugs. He’s trying to resist another burst of speed by trying to focus his energy on clenching his fist and pulling tight at his shirt.  
In another few seconds, he shudders terribly and Clint feels like he shouldn’t be watching as Pietro disappears from the corner, slamming seconds later into an opposite wall. Clint feels like he’s watching something far too vulnerable but stares at him like a hawk, unblinking and never moving his eyes away from Pietro’s violent spasms. Clint stands helpless in the middle of the room, pivoting to keep up with the way Pietro tears uncontrollably through the room.  
“You didn’t see this coming?” He chokes out, looking ghostly as he tries to smile. Clint feels weak at the knees as his voice, as rough and gravely as it is, finds him. Pietro groans and doubles over as the veins in his arms bulge, gripping this time at his own skin, like he’s trying to tear himself out.  
Clint takes a step towards Pietro, and then another. His blue eyes look detached from his emotions — he shut down the vulnerability from making it to his face. Pietro burns a hole through the middle of Clint’s outstretched hand. It’s like he’s never seen an act of kindness in his life and scared to know the consequences of accepting it.  
It looks like he’s being electrocuted and Clint barely steps back in time and into the clear as Pietro jerks forward in a frightening fast lurch. Clint think’s he’s going to fall but he can’t tell — Pietro’s a blur again and collapses just before hitting the wall. He’s too weak to catch himself and slumps to the ground with a sickening thud.  
He drags himself over to the wall, leaning into it. His head lolls forward. “Wanda,” he groans.  
“She’s okay,” Clint says before Pietro even has to ask. Pietro shudders again and his shoulders slump. The shudders subside. “Get a room ready for him,” Clint orders into the radio, to Tony.  
“Already on it. Fifth floor,” Tony replies. “Romanov’s at the stairs waiting for you.”  
Clint unlocks the door and opens it. He grunts and slips his arms under Pietro’s shoulders and the bend of his knees, picking him up off the floor. He leaves the training room with Pietro unconscious in his arms. 

Like Tony had said, Nat was waiting for him at the top of the staircase. She pulls open the door for him and he turns his body, maneuvering his chest parallel to the doorframe and stepping sideways to fit Pietro through the doorway. Natasha points with a nod of her head. “We set up a room for him down this way,” she says, motioning for him to follow.  
Clint glances down at Pietro before following. His heart clenches like a fist. Relief and worry simultaneously eat away at Clint as he walks after Natasha. She holds the door open for him and the archer steps inside. The first thing he sees is Wanda tucked into Steve’s arms, barely tall enough to see over his broad shoulders.   
Wanda makes eye contact with Clint. She looks different as her expression shifts through a million emotions, a different person entirely. Her eyes slip down to look at a face she didn’t expect to ever see again. Her arms fall from around Steve’s shoulders and she clasps her hands over her mouth, taking several steps back. Tears blur the face of her brother. Wanda can’t move her legs for a minute, frozen in place, watching Pietro as he’s lowered onto the bed.  
Clint glances at everyone but Wanda. She didn’t see the looks he gives, staring uninterrupted at the rising and falling of her brother’s chest. “We’ll give you some time,” Steve says to her quietly, catching the archer’s expression.  
“You know how to find us if you need anything,” Natasha offers. Clint leads them out of the room. Bruce is the last one out and gently closes the door behind him.

Wanda feels dream-like as she walks to the bathroom, running a cloth under cold water and wringing it out. She wipes away her tears with the back of her shaking hand as she sits down at the edge of the bed next to Pietro. Pushing back the hair from his forehead, she gently uses the washcloth to clean the sweat off his face and neck. She crawls into bed next to him and spends what feels like forever with her head on his chest, listening to his heart.  
Her body is racked with sobs that grow progressively stronger the longer she listens to the steady beat. Her eyes feel like they’re being pressed from inside her head and she takes a series of deep breaths, gasping for air as she regulates her breathing pattern.  
Wanda falls asleep, passing out with exhaustion. Pietro briefly wakes, long enough to wrap an arm around her.

Clint checks in on Wanda an hour later, relieved to see her and Pietro both resting. Not lingering so that he can’t tamper and ruin his own emotions, Clint closes the door again. He leans back against the door, sighing for a long time.  
He thinks for a long time what he’s going to do, if — when — he and Pietro properly meet again. His heart twists in anxiety and his stomach knots itself while crawling up his throat. Recalling the calm on Pietro’s face, Clint starts back towards his room. Natasha had offered to take his kids to dinner and Clint’s incredibly relieved because walking back, he knows he’s going to cry.   
He starts a shower and strips out of his clothes, locking the bathroom door and stepping into the hot stream of water. He stands, not washing his face or hair for several minutes. He just lets the water run down his skin, erasing the goosebumps across his body.


	15. Chapter 15

Days come and go. Not much is seen of Pietro after he’s found. Wanda sees him most and keeps the others updated. She takes him to the track on the rooftop when it isn’t in use, running with him. She’s more in shape than him but when he does find it in himself to control his abilities, Pietro is much, much faster.  
He goes to the rooftop at night, alone, and not to the track. He’ll just stay out there in the warm air of the summer nights, watching everything happen around him.  
Pietro decides his least favorite part about being back alive is being naked. He doesn’t exercise without a top and doesn’t take a shirt off unless he’s entirely alone behind locked doors. He’ll stare in a mirror, looking at the minuscule scars on his torso that each take the general shape of a bullet hole. He traces them endlessly, prodding at them time to time when he’s outside his room. He hates them and he hates the way they ache when he’d rather forget entirely about the minute they’d come to be and the thoughts that marked the moment he’d decided someone was worth dying for that wasn’t Wanda.

Clint watches Pietro and Wanda running from a glass door that leads to the outdoor track. Pietro’s doing better from when he’d found him. He was shaking less and he was gaining color again. His skin was healthier, colored. Clint sometimes caught bits of his steady chuckle coming from inside his room when he passes by, complementing Wanda’s airy and gentle laugh.  
He heads for breakfast, taking the elevator down several floors.  
“He’s looking better,” he comments as he grabs an apple, running it under water and drying it off. He bites into it, leaning against the counter as Natasha waits for her bread to be done toasting.  
“In what way?” She asks, raising an eyebrow at him and forcing down a smile.  
“What’s that supposed to mean?” He laughs, grabbing his mug of coffee and taking a sip. Natasha shakes her head, her lips quirked up in a tiny little smirk of hers, like she knows something he doesn’t.  
“Never mind,” she says, grabbing her bread as it jumps up from the toaster. She grabs a knife, spinning it a few times while getting jam from the fridge. She spreads it on, taking a bite. “Oh god,” she mutters around her mouth of food, shoving Clint away from the sink and spitting her bread out. “Check the expiration date on that jelly,” she asks, shuddering as she tosses her breakfast.  
“Mmm… back in March,” Clint snickers. It was June. “I think you put some mold on your second piece,” he adds, glancing into the trash at her disposed breakfast. Natasha hits him upside the head and tosses the used knife into the sink.  
“Shut up.”  
“Does Bruce like mold or something?”  
“Mm,” Natasha hums, sarcastically affirming the question.  
“Do I like what?” Someone asks, slouching tiredly into the room.  
“Mold,” Natasha replies casually, holding out a mug to Bruce. He accepts it with a thanks, smiling at the gesture. Back when he was first recruited to join the Avengers, he and Natasha had a rocky relationship. He wouldn’t have guessed things would have ended up as they are now.  
“And this is a topic because..?”  
“Your girlfriend just ate some,” Clint says. The term ‘girlfriend’ makes Natasha blush in the slightest. Bruce looks confused.  
“Jelly went bad,” she explains.   
“Of course it did,” Bruce murmurs, sipping his tea.  
“S.H.I.E.L.D. isn’t used to accommodating guests,” Natasha guesses, shrugging as she puts new pieces of bread into the toaster.  
“I’m gonna go wake up the kids,” Clint says, excusing himself. He grabs the plates of chocolate croissants from the table, holding his apple in his teeth and saying goodbye around the piece of fruit.

“Where’s Wanda?” His daughter asks, tearing into her croissant hungrily. Clint rolls his eyes — her hairs a mess and there’s dried drool at the corners of her mouth.  
“She’s with her brother,” Clint says, lowering down into a chair. He takes another bite of his apple. Since Pietro’s return, Clint hasn’t felt relaxed — but the moments he spends with kids feel most normal.  
“She said he was gone!” His son protests, nearly throwing his croissant up in the air.  
“He’s back,” Clint says with a shrug. He wonders if his kids will like Pietro if they meet. For a moment he’s worried they won’t and he wonders why he’s so worked up over it — Clint breathes in deeply. Laura had always told him not to worry about the things he didn’t know.  
Clint looks at the ring on his finger. He twists the metal band around his ring finger, fidgeting with the significant piece of jewelry. He’s surprised how months have smoothed over the sharp pain of loss, like sandpaper on splintered wood. The thought of Laura is almost a calm one, a thought that makes his heart slow and steady rather than stop altogether.  
He’s tucked the pictures of Laura away into his dresser with his shirts, put away as to not haunt him but not destroyed as to not chase her away. She’s where she should be, tucked into his mind and heart without a pull too hard. Clint feels like the sun is in his chest.


	16. Chapter 16

Wanda wakes up in an empty bed, though the space next to her is warm. Brushing her hair out of her face, she slowly sits up. She straightens out her shirt, yawning tremendously. “Pietro?”  
“Here,” her brother sounds from the bathroom. She closes her eyes, listening to his voice. It’d been so long. The door clicks open and she opens one eye, and then the other. He’s only changed his shirt. Wanda keeps quiet about why he refuses to show skin in front of her or anyone else, trusting he has good reason and wary to push him too much.  
“Did you sleep alright?”  
“Not so bad,” he says, shaking his hands a little. So-so. He looks well-rested and Wanda believes him, satisfied to know he made it through a night without waking up halfway through it. She swings her legs off the bed and stands up, squeezing her eyes shut as a rush of dizziness spins her head. Pietro’s next to her in an instant, holding her shoulder to steady her — death did nothing to break the protective nature the two had for each other.  
“I’m okay,” she says, steadying herself out. Her stomach grumbles a little and she sheepishly puts her hands over her stomach. She’d been so absorbed in watching over Pietro the past week that she’d started to neglect caring for herself. “I just need to eat.”  
Wanda takes to leave the room. Pietro hasn’t joined her to eat ever since he’d gotten here despite her offers, and she assumes he won’t be joining today. “Wait a second,” he mutters, grabbing his jacket from where it was draped over a chair. Though not in the spirits she remembered him to be in, Wanda feels hope that he’ll get back soon. Getting out of the room for anything other than training is a small step but she grins contagiously as he joins her. Pietro’s strong at her side. Pietro has the smallest smile on his face, the slightest upward tilt of his lips.  
It falters a little when he sees Clint Barton enter his room. Pietro spots him for only a brief second, if not less, as he disappears into his room, but it was enough time to get his heart furiously racing in his chest. The scars scattered across his torso throb with his heart.  
It’s not that Clint takes away Pietro’s smile, either. It’s the opposite, if only Pietro could get rid of the slight worry he had about confronting Clint one day.  
Wanda glances up at him and he shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” Pietro murmurs. Clint can only see his lips move.  
Clint apologizes. “The kids and I are gonna be up on the track,” he says, trying not to feel — intimidated? nervous? — by Pietro’s presence in the room. “But you can still come up.” Clint frowns and then mentally shakes it off, instead offering a bit of a smile. “There’s some chocolate croissants, in the kitchen. Kids couldn’t down them all,” he says. If he thinks about his kids enough, he feels his nerves evaporate a little. He leaves the room and his face heats up as soon as the door shuts.

“They’re tiny,” Pietro says, walking outside and onto the rooftop track with his sister. He bites into a croissant, pleasantly surprised by the pastry.  
“Yes,” Wanda says, laughing gently. “So don’t act like they’re Clint and sass them. They’re young.”  
Pietro gives her a good-natured push to her with his shoulder. “I know.”  
Clint’s sitting in the field in the middle of the track. His kids are running circles, playing tag. There’s a huge smile on his face, something nobody has seen from him recently. Pietro wonders where the baby is. He recalls hearing his wife was pregnant, surely it was born by now?  
“You can say hi,” Wanda murmurs. She doesn’t remember Pietro ever being this shy or hesitant. There’s a clear want in his eyes — a want that makes Wanda’s mouth form a perfect little ‘o’ when she notices Pietro’s not looking at the kids; he’s looking at Clint. He’s looking with want at Clint.  
“No,” he says dismissively. “Running first.” Wanda can’t persuade him because he’s jogging down the length of the track with steady strides. Shaking her head and giving a bit of an unbelieving laugh that Pietro, the ladies’ man, had a crush on Clint. She hadn’t seen that one coming. Wanda crosses the track and settles down next to Clint.  
“Nice day, huh?” Clint asks, squinting his eyes against the sun as he watches his kids romp around happily.  
Wanda lets out a little noise of agreement, closing her eyes and flopping down onto the grass to soak up the sun. And Clint looks to Pietro, running the track like he’d never died. “How’s he doing? Pietro?”  
Wanda smirks, a look Clint doesn’t catch. “Better,” she says, happily. “I think it’s getting easier for him to rein in his powers. And he is happier.” Clint feels an easing in his chest.   
On the far side of the track, his kids watch in awe as Pietro transforms into a mere blur of dark color, save for his grey hair.  
“Dad, did you see that?!” His daughter yells to him, running with her brother to catch up with Pietro now closer to Clint and Wanda. It becomes a bit of a game; Pietro zipping back and forth while Clint’s kids, with seemingly endless energy, bound after him. His kids crash within twenty minutes, panting in front of Wanda and their dad. “He’s … so cool…”  
Clint smiles in amusement. He watches Pietro cool down, walking a slow lap around the track. His hands rest on his head, working out a cramp in his side. As a dad, Clint feels a sort of awe at how smoothly Pietro transitioned from training to play with his kids and a blossoming respect. Shaking his head, he grunts and gets up, sweeping his daughter up into his arms. His son trails along beside him, still panting. “You smell awful,” Clint says jokingly, and his son protests, laughing and arguing.

“Well?” Wanda asks, looking at Pietro as he walks off the track.  
“What?” He says. His accent is thick with his exhaustion.  
“His kids. Did you like them?”  
Pietro puts his hands on his hips and his mouth splits into a grin. “They are tiny.” But he says it differently this time. Wanda doesn’t push him, happy enough to know he liked them. Pietro stares after Clint as he walks inside with his kids. Pietro finds it a miracle how Clint can transform from a battle-scarred dad to a father so gentle. He feels a respect for Clint but Pietro ignores it. In fact, he ignores anything he feels towards Clint when it comes to the emotions department. At least, he tries.


	17. Chapter 17

Clint and Pietro make it a few days without some weird run in. They come briefly into contact, usually at breakfast or lunch. They’re always with Wanda and usually another Avenger, by chance. They feed off the conversation, stealing sneaked glances at the other when they can. It’s a weird relationship to have; facing the man who saved your life and facing the man who saved you. It’s unapproachable at a slow pace and neither of them seem to want to break the ice and dive into freezing water. Neither of them are content thawing the ice, either. But the silence keeps on.  
Clint excuses himself from lunch one afternoon. “Archery calls,” he explains, pushing back his chair. He puts his plate in the sink and leaves the room. He feels two sets of eyes on his back and knows exactly which pair is Pietro’s.

He fires arrow after arrow… after arrow. Every one hits the center of the target, clustered together in the yellow area, cramming as if pulled by magnetic attraction towards the black dot in the precise, exact middle.  
“Why did archery call?”  
Clint feels his body tense but relaxes just as quick. He sets down his bow and pulls his arrows one by one from the target, putting them back into the quiver slung across his back. “Have to stay sharp,” he says with a shrug, looking Pietro in the eye for the first time since he’d been resurrected. “I don’t get as many missions with the kids right now. Father first, nowadays.”  
It feels like an entirely wrong conversation to have with Pietro. They should be joking, teasing. Not making small talk. They’d been more than small talk. Weren’t they still? Clint fiddles with the one arrow in his hands. His fingers run with the plastic feathers on the end of the arrow. Pietro slowly steps inside of the room, shutting the door behind him. The space suddenly feels intimate; a room that makes up an entire universe. A room that is an entire universe. Clint’s throat closes and betrays him, cowers and shrinks away from what needs to be said.  
“Water?” Pietro offers, holding out an untouched bottle he must have had leftover from practice. Clint laughs a little, shaking his head. It gets quiet again. Clint keeps looking down at the arrow, even as he can feel Pietro’s gaze bore into his head. It was piercing. Like bullets.  
“Thank you.” He looks up at Pietro, wanting to somehow let him know there isn’t more he can say to make it anymore sincere. “Thank you for saving my life, kid.”  
Pietro licks his lips, like his mouth has gone parched from anxiety and fear. He doesn’t know how to respond because saving Clint’s life had never been an option or a decision, it had been an instinct. And it had never been an instinct to protect someone unless that someone was Wanda. And never would Pietro even dream of admitting that to Clint.  
“It was for Sokovia,” he said at last. “Sokovia was home and it was his home too,” Pietro says. He can still see the face of the boy he had saved but struggles to remember his name. Castel? “Is it gone?” Of course it’s gone.  
“It’s gone.” Pietro bows his head. “I’m sorry.”  
“Not your fault,” Pietro says. His accent grows heavy the wearier he gets. Clint finds it almost, nearly, endearing. The silence comes back. Clint doesn’t like it, nor does Pietro — but silence seems to be their constant companion.  
“Listen, kid, you don’t have to…” Clint sighs, putting the arrow away and running a hand through his hair. Doesn’t have to what? “Whatever this is, closure… I’m fine.” A lie, a blatant lie that they both knew.  
“You can’t keep up,” Pietro says, shooting his lie down as quick as he can run. “Old man.” Pietro stares Clint down with an unflinching look that is hard but pleads to hear some sort of truth.  
Clint runs his hands down his face and nervously twists the ring on his finger. Pietro doesn’t miss the way he moves it with his thumb around his ring finger. It looks an intimate habit and he feels a gross stab of envy. The feeling doesn’t show. “I’m fine, kid. I’m just tired.”  
Bullshit. Clint starts packing away his bow and arrows, avoiding Pietro’s eyes. Almost angrily, Pietro leaves the room. Clint immediately deflates, like he’d shot an arrow through a balloon heart. He leaves the room after staring at the ghost of where Pietro stood, feeling like he’d lost him as soon as he’d gotten him back. He swears and stalks from the room. The door clicks shut behind him.

He doesn’t leave from his room once he goes inside. He showers until his finger tips ache from how pruned they’ve become. He showers until his skin is so hot — or was it cold? — that he couldn’t feel it. He showers until he can’t feel a damn thing. He doesn’t pick up after himself and lets his discarded, dirty clothes sit on his floor. He stares at the ceiling from the bed, stares at the wall, stares at the words on the pages of a book.  
Pietro stands outside his door for minutes, his hand torn between knocking or punching the door. He does neither, and instead leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos. I'm really glad you guys enjoy the story this much!


	18. Chapter 18

“Pietro…” Wanda can tell he’s upset. She can feel his anger radiating from his rising and falling chest as he stares at the ceiling.  
“I just want to know,” he says flatly, biting his tongue to hold back a string of angry words. “Does he not owe me that much?” It’s almost selfish to think that way, Wanda knows, but she can only imagine the distress Pietro is in. Having been resurrected from the dead to be tossed into conflict with the person he had died for — what was that like?  
Wanda lay down next to him, her hand clasping his gently. “Clint went through a lot. Losing you and losing her…”   
“Her?”  
Wanda mentally clasps a hand over her mouth. She instead closes her warm brown eyes in frustration at having let that slip out. “His wife died giving birth. And the baby didn’t make it either,” she says quietly. Her heart breaks for Clint all over again. Wanda adds, “The baby’s name was Nathaniel Pietro Barton.”  
Pietro feels his heart break, too, in a way he’s never felt it break before. It feels like glass shards in his lungs, like an explosion in his chest, a slow shattering of the ribs. It’s a different pain than losing Sokovia, it’s a different pain from losing his parents, his house, his past, his youth. It’s not any more intense, but it’s different. It’s a unique eruption of fury and pain inside of him. Pietro turns to his side, looking at Wanda’s profile. She’s staring at him with a look in her eyes, like she’s holding something back; like she isn’t sharing something.  
“What?”  
Wanda smiles a little, a smile as faint and gently curved as the waxing moon. “You care for Clint for than you let him know,” she says, picking her words carefully. Maybe Pietro wasn’t ready to admit to himself his feelings. But Wanda knew. She always knew, when it came to her brother. Almost always, anyways.  
“I don’t understand what you are trying to say,” Pietro huffs, rolling onto his back again to look at the ceiling.  
“You like him.”  
“As much as I like Hydra,” he scoffs, but his cheeks color.

Pietro reflects on his conversation with his sister that night, laying in his own room adjacent to hers. He gets out of bed, tossing the covers aside and swinging his legs around the edge of the bed. He sits like that a moment before standing up. He’s dizzy and blinks hard, waiting for the brief nausea to pass. Once it does, he strides to the bathroom. He looks hard at his torso, where almost a dozen circular scars mark his skin — scars from the bullets — and he hates them. He wishes that they had given him new skin where the scars were.  
His conversation with Wanda awoke sudden awareness in him that, yes, he did like Clint. He liked Clint a lot, despite the frustration he felt for him in the very moment. He stares himself down in the vanity mirror, wondering if he is a man who doesn’t deserve a conversation with Clint, to come to a resolution. He wonders if he is a man who doesn’t deserve Clint at all.  
There’s a knock on his door. “It’s Clint,” the owner of the knock owns up before he can ask. “Open up, kid. We need to talk.”  
“It’s about time,” Pietro says. He’d pulled on a loose sleeping shirt in a second and opened the door in the same instant. He steps aside slightly, inviting Clint inside with an apathetic expression.  
“I’m sorry for blowing you off earlier. I don’t open up easy.”  
“I can tell.”  
Clint chuckles, a little uneasy. His heart beats in time with the sound of the door clicking shut. It is just him and Pietro, Pietro and him. He needs this time alone. He needs Pietro to understand him, but, “I don’t know where to start.”  
“How about from the part where I die?” Pietro suggests without hesitation. He sits down on his bed, bringing his knees to his chest. He looks small, like a child, lost and vulnerable. He wanted answers and wasn’t willing to wait, and that was the one thing about him that was not childish in his expression. There was a vigor in his eyes that would not disappear until he got what he was looking for: closure.  
“I went back to my farmhouse. I left the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters soon as Ultron was shut out entirely; destroyed. My wife, Laura — she was pregnant with our son.” And she died, Pietro thinks. “And she died in labor. So did the baby.” Clint looks down at the floor, anxiously rubbing his hands together. “I’m living here now, trying to run away.” He nods his head. “Like a coward.”  
Pietro knew all of it. His conversation with Wanda was mirrored by Clint, confirming everything she had told him. But it means more coming from Clint; coming willingly from the man who he’d died for. From the man he would die for, again and again.  
“I’m sorry.”  
“Me too, kid.” Clint sighs. “Me too.”  
“Thank you for telling me,” Pietro murmurs. He brings his knees down from his chest and crosses his legs, folding them criss-cross.  
“Can I ask you something?” Clint asks cautiously. He doesn’t know where Pietro is, emotionally. Pietro nods slightly. “Why did you do it?”  
Pietro doesn't need to ask what it means. Why did he decide to die for Clint? “You had a child in your arms. One life or two? Which is more valuable?” Clint doesn’t answer. “It wasn’t a hard decision to make. And I trusted you to not let me die in vain,” Pietro confesses, staring Clint down.  
“I guess that’s up to you now,” Clint says. “What made me fight to stay alive?”  
Pietro shakes his head, looking away. “Goodnight, Clint.”  
He crossed the line. “Goodnight, Pietro. Thank you,” he says sincerely, making sure Pietro looks him in the eye again. “For everything.” He leaves the room, wishing he could stay.


	19. Chapter 19

After his talk with Pietro, things between them improved. The conversation had been brief and to the point but it had felt like it had lasted much longer. Clint lives the next forty eight hours by reliving the conversation, hiding in the memory of it. He had come clean, hadn’t he?  
Clint knew he hadn’t, and he had called himself what he was, a coward. He lived in denial, thus why he lived in memories. He didn’t have to face what he hadn’t come to terms with. Clint hated living like this but it felt wrong to look at himself in the mirror or look at Pietro and have that feeling run through his stomach and jumpstart his heart.  
He truly doesn’t know what the feeling means for a while. For the weeks following Pietro’s resurrection, Clint did not understand the signs he was given. He didn’t understand what his body physically clued him into; the fluttering heart, the heat in his lower stomach, the twisting of his gut. He didn’t get why he was so damn flustered around the kid until, yes, until he did get it.  
The first time he thought it was in the shower after training with Steve. He came undone under the hot water, shriveling up and curling into himself. He had feelings for Pietro. Romantic ones. He had first called it a crush but that wasn’t the right word. That was schoolboy terminology. He didn’t know what to call it and rather decided he just had it, and that it did not need a name.  
Clint was scared of it. He’d never had it for a boy before; never felt this way over a guy. Clint’s mind rockets to everything it presents: telling his kids, telling Laura somehow, telling everyone, telling Pietro. Telling himself.  
He tells himself first and sits with it. He sits with it as Pietro talks to Wanda and amiably argues with Tony. He sits with it as he runs the track and Pietro laps him a billion and one times. He sits with it as he sleeps, as he eats, as he lives.  
“Clint?”  
“S’up?” He looks up from his coffee, sugar and creamer free.  
“You’re out of it,” Natasha offers bluntly, setting her steaming mug of tea down. “Cat got your tongue? Come on,” she persuades, punching him lightly on the shoulder.  
He shakes his head despite a sudden swell of courage. “Just been feelin’ outta my skin,” he says. Natasha gives him a long look and Clint knows she won’t give in. He could do this. He could tell her. “This isn’t the place.”  
Natasha follows him to his room, arms crossed and curiosity — as well as concern — written discreetly on her face. He shuts the door and takes a deep breath, waiting for it to come. He waits for the five seconds he needs to just spit it out.  
“It’s Pietro,” he says, and he’s halfway there. Natasha says nothing, letting her silence prompt him to go on. “I —“  
“Clint,” she says earnestly, “there’s not a lot I can’t take.”  
“I like him,” Clint sputters out, hastily adding, “romantically.”  
Natasha gains a little quirky smile on her face. “Cute,” she notes, patting the spot on the bed next to her. “Come here.” Clint does, leaning into Nat and sighing. “It’s not the end of the world — and hey, if it was, we’ve stopped it before.”  
“He hates me.”  
“He does not,” she laughs, putting an arm around his shoulders and rubbing his bicep. “Trust me, Clint. He’s just adjusting.”  
“Since when did you know emotions?” Clint grumbles.  
“I only pretend not to have them,” she says, with sarcastic offense. Clint laughs.  
“So… you don’t care?”  
“Of course I care,” Nat murmurs, pulling away to look him in the eye. “Not that you like a boy. I care that you care.” He laughs uncertainly and looks down to his hands, where he rubs them together between his legs. “To Budapest and back, remember?”  
“To Budapest and back.”

A weight is off his shoulders. Now that Nat knows, it feels like he’s hiding less. She gives him smirks and winks across the room and table when Pietro is near or talking to him. Clint ignores them but secretly appreciates and enjoys how naturally she acts about it.  
“You and Natasha,” Pietro asks one day, standing next to Clint as they watch her and Steve fight hand-to-hand. “Are you dating?” Clint bursts out into laughter with a hand clutching his stomach. “What?”  
“No, kid. We aren’t.”  
“She winks at you a lot. I thought you caught onto that?”  
“For other reasons,” Clint clarifies.  
“What reasons?” He pries, looking curiously at Steve with a ridiculously mischievous smile.  
Clint smiles, nudging Pietro on the shoulder. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday.”


	20. Chapter 20

“Take it easy,” Clint hollers, nearly out of breath.  
“Can’t keep up?” Pietro asks, instantly across the track and jogging backwards in front of the archer. He smirks.  
“Obviously not,” he retorts, rolling his eyes and continuing, despite the breathless ache in his ribs, to run. “I’m not some speed demon like you.”  
“Wish you were?”  
“Nope.”

That was their relationship now: improved, and easy-going. Ever since telling Nat, it felt like his secret wasn’t quite as shameful. And it was easier to talk to Pietro, after talking to him the other night and knowing he himself isn’t the only one who knows how he feels for him. It’s easier to joke and to be around Pietro, and more relaxed. Being in the same room was less painful and shameful than before and Clint felt less vulnerable knowing what the new butterflies in his stomach and the twists in his gut were.  
Clint reflects on this with gentle satisfaction as he leaves his room to check in on Wanda, and take his kids from her to have dinner with them. He knocks softly on the door to her room, and she opens it like she’s been expecting him. “Shh,” she hushes, with a little smile. “They’re asleep, both of them.”  
Glad nothing has gone wrong, he steps inside. Surely enough, they’re tucked in her bed, with drool coming out from their mouths with gentle snores. “I can take them to dinner now—“  
“Don’t,” she interrupts him, rolling her eyes. “Let them sleep. They had a late lunch anyways.” Wanda smiles and Clint does, too. He feels together, at last. His kids are okay and his time with them is as valuable as ever. They’re happy, they get along with everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. They miss their mom, but they’re okay. They’re tough. Wanda knows the look in his eyes: pride, the humble kind. “Could you take them tomorrow?”  
“Sure. What’s up?” He asks, catching the furrow in her brow.  
“I want to talk with Stark, and Banner. About Pietro.” She’s clearly upset that they hid from her what they had been doing in the laboratory all that time — perhaps even angry — and was determined to get at least an apology from them. What they did, bringing her brother back to life, she would die to get, but she’s still resenting it for the secretive nature of it.   
“Gotcha. I can take ‘em, no problem. Is Pietro good with kids?” He asks. Wanda laughs quietly, nodding yes. “Good.” Wanda waits in the quiet, like there’s more to hear. Is it the right time to tell her, Clint wonders?  
No.  
Speaking of things to tell her, Pietro walks in the room just then. He looks between Clint and Wanda and rests his gaze on the bed. “Those are yours?” Wanda laughs a little louder than before.  
“Yeah,” Clint says softly. “Yeah, those are mine. I’ll bring ‘em back to my room so you guys can get to sleep.”  
“Need help?” Wanda offers and Clint opens his mouth to say yes but Pietro is a blur and the next moment, already has one of Clint’s kids in his arms.  
“Nah,” he says, scooping up his other kids. “Thank you, Wanda.” He gives her a quick kiss on the forehead. She opens the door for him and Pietro, letting it shut quietly after them.  
“Are you and my sister a thing? Because —“  
“No,” Clint laughs. “She’s like a sister to me.”  
“Don’t hurt her,” Pietro warns, like he said nothing.  
“Or you’ll snap me like a twig?”  
“Worse,” Pietro says.  
“I’d like to see you try.” Holding his kid in one arm, cradling them, Clint opens the door to his room with the other. He sets him down in the bed, and Pietro follows his lead. Clint rolls the covers back over them and they continue to snore like nothing had happened. “Thanks for helping.”  
Pietro nods, reflecting on the kids for a quiet moment or so. They remind him of he and Wanda; brother and sister without parents, or a parent in their case, in a new world all of the sudden. He feels their naive nature and his like for them evolves into a protective instinct, a determination that these kids get the life he and Wanda didn’t.

Clint goes to bed wondering why Pietro is so interested in knowing if he is a thing, with Natasha or Wanda. He indulges himself in the idea that Pietro is jealous and he falls asleep with the thought in his mind.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize this chapter is so brief, I just wanted to post something and let you all know that I am starting to continue writing this story! If there's anything you'd like to see in this story, leave a comment and let me know! Thank you for all the support.

“So what if I like Clint?” Pietro says defensively around his toothbrush. His hair is curled and messy this morning and his eyes are tired.  
“It’s just that you can’t even hide it!” Wanda laughs, brushing her hair. “You’re so obvious, it hurts.” Pietro rolls his eyes and spits out toothpaste, flushing his mouth out by swishing around water. “Are you going to tell him?  
Pietro nearly gags at the thought. “No!”  
“Why not?” Wanda exclaims, looking at her brother with wide eyes. “He’s single!" “And probably not interested in dating men,” Pietro laughs. He’s amused despite his situation. This is the first crush he’s had on a guy since, well, since ever, and he’s pretty calm about it.  
“You don’t know that,” his sister says matter of factly as she rinses her toothbrush and begins to brush her hair.  
“I do,” Pietro argues. He pictures himself telling Clint that he likes him and it’s an embarrassing scene to visualize. He runs a hand through his messy hair, his fingers catching and then pushing through knots. A moment later, he asks with a huff, “Do you really think I should tell him?”  
“Of course I do,” Wanda replies. “You’ll regret it if you don’t.”  
Frowning, suddenly baffled by his position and feelings, he leaves the bathroom. He can hear Wanda snickering and he smiles a little, trying to overcome his frustrations. Pietro pulls on a lightweight, loose tank top and running shorts. He hops around on one foot as he pulls on his socks and sneakers. Maybe he can run fast enough to escape his feelings for a while.  
“I heard you’re going to give Stark and Banner a scolding,” Pietro says after a moment, glancing over at Wanda, who is currently tying back the length of her hair.  
“And you heard that where?” His sister asks, now leaning into the mirror with a pencil at her eyelids, where she steadily traces a black line.  
“I was outside your door last night a moment before I came in,” he says with a shrug, and Wanda’s huff makes him smirk in the slightest. “I’d be mad, too,” Pietro admits, “if they hid you from me. I can’t blame you for being angry.” Wanda doesn’t say a word, so he continues. “I’d tear the world apart.”


End file.
